


Quite Permanently

by slytherinslocket



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:05:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4606092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherinslocket/pseuds/slytherinslocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble series concerning a double-oh agent, his quartermaster, and one bloody big ship.</p><p>
  <strong>Chapter 5: In which there are fake proposals (and then a real one). </strong>
</p><p><em>“Marry me.”</em><br/>“Are you talking to me or the tea?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> Here's just a short intro to get the ball rolling.

“Q.”  
The slight irritation apparent in Moneypenny’s tone suggested that this was not her first attempt to garner the quartermaster’s attention. 

It also implied this was the last time such a request would occur in a polite fashion. 

“Yes. Yes. I know. I’ll get you those forms once I’ve finished-“

Before Q could begin extoling the long list of projects that needed completing before he even glanced at the comparatively dull paperwork that M had sent Moneypenny to strong-arm him, quite literally if necessary, for, she asked, “What is that on your hand?”

Q looked down at said appendage as though expecting to find something other than the ring to which she was referring. 

“That, my dearest Moneypenny, is called a wedding ring. I should think you would be aware of their existence considering a large portion of the adult population wears one.“ 

She rolled her eyes at his deliberate obtuseness. 

“I know _what_ it is. I meant since when have you had cause to wear one?” 

“Well, as the name implies, such a ring signifies marriage. Therefore, I’ll say I was given plenty of cause yesterday. When I got married. “ 

His tone that suggested such a conclusion should have been obvious. 

She glowered at him and looked ready to delve much, much further into the subject of his recent nuptials, when James Bond stalked into Q's office with his usual disregard for the social convention of knocking. 

“Ah Quartermaster. You’re here.”

“As we are in my office, I’m not entirely sure why this comes as a surprise, 007.”

He eyed the agent in that quintessentially Q manner best equated to a God amused by the antics of lesser beings. 

Bond raised an eyebrow, “I heard you had a tiring night. Thought you might be sleeping it off.” 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Q replied primly, the quirk at the corner of his mouth tainting his deadpan delivery. 

“Perhaps I can offer a more exhaustive challenge.” Bond suggested as he leaned his elbows on Q’s desk, thoroughly invading his space. 

“Ah ah, James.” Moneypenny warned. “No flirting with the Quartermaster. He’s taken.”

Not moving his gaze from where it rested on Q, examining the younger man at its leisure, he questioned, “Is that so?”

Q held up his hand in order to more prominently display his ring, flashing Bond a shameless, shit-eating grin. 

“Yes. Quite permanently I’m afraid.”


	2. The One Wherein Bond is Sentimental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...in his own way

It was a typical Tuesday. 

Well, as typical as can be when working at MI6. 

Q stood before a wall of screens, armed with his signature scrabble mug and usual razor sharp wit. CCTV footage depicting a mostly uninhabited shipping port was the current feature film. The most interesting scene being the one in which James Bond participated in his typical Tuesday standoff.

He was staring down the current villain-of-the-week, his casual stance oozing a complete lack of concern as to the multiple guns trained on his person. 

He remained entirely unfazed as one of what Q liked to term “evil henchmen” patted him down. He most certainly did not look apologetic when the said henchman discovered the Glock in his suit jacket pocket, shrugging as though to say, “What did you expect?”

However, when the man freed a scrap of paper from Bond’s breast pocket he froze momentarily, causing Q to lean closer to the screen in concern for whatever, surely vital, information had been found. 

He was not the only one to notice as the main baddie, yet another Q-ism, raised an eyebrow and reached out an imperious hand. 

“Now, what do we have here?” He questioned as the minion dutifully returned to his overlord’s (Q really had read too many comics as a child) side, the two other goons pointing their guns steadily at Bond in order to discourage any thoughts of escape. 

A smirk graced the honestly mediocre-at-best villain’s face as he began to read aloud. 

“Cat litter, earl grey tea…” 

An annoyed frown replaced the smirk and he turned his attention yet again to the double-oh agent. 

“What is this? Some sort of code?”

Bond smiled in that charming way of his that usually led to attempts on his life. 

“Don’t antagonize him.” Q muttered futilely into his earpiece. 

“Nope. I just happened to be on a trip to the market when I ran into you upstanding fellows.” 

Q rolled his eyes and began typing, ignoring the unfamiliar yet not unpleasant feeling swelling in his chest. 

“Bond now is perhaps a good time to take a few steps back.”

Still smiling benevolently, Bond did just that. 

“Stay right where you are.” Bond was ordered, the men following his movement with their weapons. 

“No, I don’t think I will.” Bond replied, continuing to gaze directly at the enraged leader while slowly stepping backwards. 

The man was not given a chance to respond as a loud noise overhead indicated that one of the large cranes had begun to move.

With no operator in sight. 

“How are you doing this?” One lackey demanded, a satisfyingly frightened look on his face. 

“I can’t take credit for this one I’m afraid.” Bond responded, continuing his retreat. 

“Where do you think you’re—“ 

Unfortunately, for him, the head honcho was yet again prevented from speaking.

Speech is often difficult when one is crushed under a shipping container dropped by an unmanned crane. 

Bond sauntered over, whistling in appreciation as he saw the carnage, all four criminals broken beneath the immense weight. 

“Nice one, Q.”

“It was my pleasure, 007.”

Bond reached towards the hand protruding from beneath the metal container and pried the list, revealing information no more critical than Q’s tea preferences, from the dead man’s grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble stemmed from the idea that Bond would like to have some sort of reminder of Q with him but would never keep something, like a photograph, that could easily be used against him by his enemies. Feel free to let me know what you think! :)


	3. In Which Q is a Terrible Damsel in Distress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You didn’t even need to be rescued, did you?”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _“I apologize for ruining your damsel in distress fantasies, 007, but no. I do very much appreciate the ride though. “_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the bare bones of this one written for a while, so it's nice to finally wrap it up!

“Q, I need you to focus. Open your eyes and look at me.”

“Not everyone is infatuated with your pretty face, 007.” Q replied, breathless, though not in the way usually attributed to Bond’s presence. 

“Yes they are.”

There were hands on Q’s face now, holding steadily yet gently as he attempted to move out of their grasp. 

Q’s eyes remained stubbornly shut. 

“Come on, Q. You know you’ve missed this face.”

Q snorted in derision and then immediately groaned as his bruised ribs voiced their protest. 

“That’s irrelevant, as I do not have my glasses and am practically blind without them.”

One of Bond’s hands migrated from Q’s cheek to curl into the hair on his neck, stroking reassuringly. 

“Did they take them?” Bond questioned, referring to those who had held Q captive for two days—until he’d had well enough of that and proceeded to escape in such a spectacular fashion it rivaled some of 007’s escapades. 

Which lead them to this moment, sitting just outside the blast radius of a massive explosion whilst waiting for the MI6 transport and, most importantly, medic to arrive. 

“In a manner of speaking. I broke one of the lenses and stuck it through a man’s femoral artery. I suppose I’ll have to find myself a new pair.”

Bond let out a startled huff akin to laughter and Q grinned in his general direction, leaning his head back into the light ministrations of the agent’s fingers. 

“You didn’t even need to be rescued, did you?” 

“I apologize for ruining your damsel in distress fantasies, 007, but no. I do very much appreciate the ride though."

Bond leaned forward so that his forehead rested lightly against Q’s own. 

“You can call me James, you know.”

“James, “ Q repeated softly, testing the taste of the word on his tongue. “You may continue to call me Q.”

This time, when James truly laughed, a rare sound, Q opened his eyes. 

And frowned. 

“Blurry is not a good look on you.”


	4. Things you said too quietly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I forgot I wrote this a little while ago for the tumblr prompt: **Things you said too quietly**. I figured I might as well add it to the collection.

I am in a hospital. 

I know this though my eyelids are shuttered. A droning beep persists in my ear and an antiseptic smell invades my nostrils as I take slow, painful breaths.

I am in a hospital and I am not alone. 

My right hand is anchored at the bedside, clasped in your clammy palms. I’m tempted to intertwine my fingers with your own lovely digits: thin and callused and familiar. _So fuck it I do_ and it feels oh so right and a breath escapes my lips that could be called a sigh. 

Except I’m not the sighing type.

Well, I never was.

Before you.

You breathe your own sigh of response and I feel you lean forward, my hand still a willing captive in yours.

Your voice is soft as you say my name. Not the sated sound that whispers across my skin as we wake tangled in your our sheets, but a harsh, hoarse noise that struggles to break free from your lips. _“James, please. Please just open your eyes for me.”_ Your hand, the one not currently grasping mine, strokes lightly across my jaw in a way that could be called timid.

Except you’re not the timid type.

Well, you never were.

Before me.

So it is with both guilt and selfish, all-consuming need that I force my eyes to open and gaze upon your face. Your face that is so very gaunt- smudged circles painted under your eyes and your cheekbones sharp enough to slice the air. It is a beautiful face, your eyes filled with an awe ~~never~~ so rarely directed at me. You speak again, your voice as wrecked as it is lovely. _“I’m sorry. I know you’re tired. I just needed–I’m sorry.”_

And you do sound sorry, oh so sorry for so many reasons and I reach the hand unclasped in yours and cup your face for just a second. Now it is your eyes that have closed and, after my strength has failed and gravity prevailed in dragging my hand downward to the bed you lean backwards yet again, my hand still cradled in yours. The look upon your face could be called a smile.

Except you’re not the smiling type.

Well, not anymore.

You bring the hand to your lips and press a cold kiss across my skin.

_“I don’t think I can survive you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write in this style, so any thoughts would be much appreciated :)


	5. Chapter 5.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter 5: In which there are fake proposals (and then a real one).**
> 
> _“Marry me.”_  
>  “Are you talking to me or the tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw Spectre and felt the overwhelming urge to write some 00q schmoop, enjoy!

Q had been awake for so many hours that his vision had become a blur.

_Wait, no._

He picked up his glasses from where they had fallen atop his desk during a particularly vigorous rubbing of his eyes. 

_Ah, much better._

His office, in all its cluttered glory, returned to focus, along with a blonde-haired, blue-eyed devil of a man that Q would swear on all his tech had not been there 30 seconds ago. 

“Holy fucking—“

“Language, Quartermaster.” Bond tutted and Q was seized with an urge to grab the nearest weapon and shoot him with it. 

In a friendly and non-lethal manner, of course. 

Instead, his restless hands straightened his glasses and he took a steadying breath before replying. 

“What can I do for you, 007?”

Bond smirked in a predatory way that Q had become accustomed to seeing through surveillance cameras but had yet to be on the receiving end of. 

“I think it’s more a question of what I can do for you.”

Deliberately, the agent dragged his eyes across the whole of his Quartermaster, from the hair that had clearly had a tragic break up with a comb to the shoes scuffed and stained with car oil. As though his face was not turning a lovely shade of pink, Q raised an imperious eyebrow. 

“And what is that?”

Clearly not fooled by Q’s attempts to seem unaffected, Bond pulled his left hand, which in his exhausted state Q hadn’t noticed was being held behind the double-oh’s back, and held out a cup of tea which Q gingerly accepted and proceeded to sniff. The familiar scent of tea wafted into his nostrils, the steam rising from the cup caressing his face with its warmth and he released a sigh of unadulterated pleasure. About to take a sip, he paused and glanced up at Bond through his wayward fringe, suspicious. 

“Did you drug this?”

Rather than looking insulted at this insinuation, Bond grinned. 

“Nope.”

He didn’t elaborate further. 

Q debated a moment more before deciding fuck it and drinking the hot beverage in a manner reminiscent of a university student chugging a beer; head tossed back, throat exposed to the trained killer standing before him. When the cup was half empty, Q released a satisfied sound.

“Marry me.” He said, cradling the cup to his chest.

“Are you talking to me or the tea?”

Startled, he had almost forgotten Bond’s presence in his tea-induced stupor, Q returned his eyes to the agent, who had taken advantage of this inattention and sidled closer.

Ignoring the inconvenient heart palpitations occurring in his chest, Q replied archly, “The tea, obviously.”

“Shame.”

Bond stared into Q’s bemused eyes longer than strictly professional, and then exited as quickly as he came. 

Q gazed after him for a minute, sipping at his tea contemplatively, before returning to work. 

* * *

Bond was, to put it mildly, fucked. 

He took stock of the latest mess he’d fallen into: hands secured behind his back with zip-ties, pulling uncomfortably at his bruised ribs, a wicked gash on his thigh bleeding steadily with no bandage to stem the flow, thoughts still sluggish from whatever drug had been used to render him unconscious. 

The room, or more accurately cell, he was being held in was decidedly far less nice than the five star hotel room he’d been afforded: all grey cinder block walls, floor stained with dirt, blood and other unmentionables, sturdy, steel door preventing his escape. 

_Typical._

He was unsure how long it’d been since the mission had, in the usual fashion, gone to hell. When he found that fucking mole…  
His pockets felt unfortunately empty; he’d clearly been divested of any helpful Q-branch gadgets whilst unconscious. Even his unassuming watch was no longer wrapped around his wrist. He began the process of dragging his linked arms underneath his legs to bring them forward, panting heavily as pain sliced through his ribs and the open wound on his thigh. Once done, he proceeded to rip pieces of cloth from his shirt to tie in a makeshift tourniquet. 

No sooner had he accomplished that then he heard a popping sound loudly pierce the air outside his cell door.  
He levered himself off the ground, ignoring his protesting injuries, searching for anything could serve as a weapon. No such luck. 

_Fists it is, then._

Readying his stance as much as possible, he watched guardedly as the door swung open, hinges squealing. 

In the doorway, wearing a knit sweater that clashed horribly with the assault rifle clenched in his hands, was Q. Upon sight of the double-oh agent, he relaxed his grip on the gun and stepped further into the cell. 

“Ah, there you are, 007.”

Despite the casual tone, there was relief clearly visible in his eyes as they flickered over Bond, assessing for damage. For once in his life, Bond felt at a loss for words; but he needn’t have bothered as Q continued, “Well? Are you going to stand there or can we leave? Some of us have places to be.” 

“Yes, I’m sure your cats miss you terribly.” 

He nodded at the gun in Q’s hands. 

“Do you even know how to use that?”

The corner of Q’s lips twitched, “Certainly.” 

Then he whipped around and shot the guard who had been sneaking up behind him straight through his left eye before Bond could even shout a warning. 

He turned back to bond with an eyebrow raised. 

_Damn, that was attractive._

“Marry me, Q.” Bond said, unable to hide his awe. 

Q shot him a wicked grin. 

* * *

Q did not get down on one knee. _Antiquated tradition, that._ Instead, he remained seated on the bench next to Bond, the very same one on which they had met. He extended a palm holding to gold rings towards the man and, as he had in that first encounter, Q spoke first. 

_What do you see?_

“Marry me, James?” He asked softly, eyes never once lifting from Bond’s face. 

_A bloody big ship._

“Yes.”


End file.
